


Wrapped In A

by Ladycat



Series: Happy Endings [4]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post: s05e22 Not Fade Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rolling his hips just so, Spike settled his legs parallel to Connor's, small arse flush up against his groin. “Gonna tell me you didn’t miss me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapped In A

Spike slid down the back of the sofa, legs bracketing Connor’s hips. “Was he trying to paper the cupboard shelves?”

The controller clicked in jerky patterns, twisted left and right like moving it would move the tiny figure on the screen. “Yes.”

“Er. Gonna let me in on why?”

“I have no idea—dammit!”

Spike waited patiently for Connor to decide if he was going to play another round or put the game away for later. It wasn’t in his nature to be patient and video-games were still outlandishly over his head, but in many ways Connor was a typical young man, raised with the dawn of Nintendo. Interrupt him during his video games without due cause and suddenly he’d remember just how much school-work he had left to do. The kind that had to be done in the library.

Spoiled brat.

“One more round, please?” Connor twisted to bat those outrageously long lashes at him, grey eyes teasing and light.

Spoiled brat that had Spike wrapped firmly around his little pinky, was a better moniker. “Fine. Here I am, home from the wars—”

“You went to Santa Barbara.”

“— _wars_ , full of deadly sunshine and Jehovah’s Witnesses on every bloody corner—honestly, it was like a convention of the charmingly damned—and after a solid week and a half of me pining away, lonely and alone in my very cold bed—”

“It was ninety five at night, Spike, and you hate the air conditioner so I doubt you were cold.”

Spike growled. It was a perfectly lovely growl, low and full of an animal intensity that Spike leaned right into the nape of Connor’s neck, letting his teeth graze wet and cool against warm skin.

Connor went still.

“It was _cold_ ,” Spike repeated, softer now and a little leading. “An’ very lonely.”

“You know, I don’t think I want to play anymore.”

Something about this modern generation required them to have the last word. Spike’d always thought it was girls who fell into that particular trap, witness Dawn and her ability to flounce despite having melons that’d grown a bit too big for flouncing, but Connor had taught him different. The boy was _driven_ to make sure it was his voice that echoed longest.

Normally, that lead to some fairly interesting fights, since there could be only one attention-starved bloke in a pairing. Now, though, Spike was more than willing to let Connor have his way, so long as it meant _Spike_ had _his_.

Rolling his hips just so, Spike settled his legs parallel to Connor's, small arse flush up against his groin. “Gonna tell me you didn’t miss me?”

“Dad came by.”

Spike blinked. Looked as his hand, poised on the curve of Connor’s hip, fingers inches from his groin. “Er. Yes? I saw him with a roll of that shelf-paper he’s on about, as he was leaving.”

Connor twisted around so he could lift his mouth up for a kiss, knowing he’d get one: and he always would. Spike was powerless against that small, thin-lipped mouth, one that opened up to the dirtiest kisses imaginable, wicked and taunting. He loved those lips especially, loved them stretched as wide as they could go, and he couldn’t not kiss them when it was offered.

“He bought us groceries,” Connor continued, carefully shifting so that he was perched on Spike’s legs, cock rubbing hard and warm against Spike’s belly. His hands were warm on Spike’s face, holding him still for more kissing, all fast tongue and sweet, heated breath. “And he tried to clean.”

Spike yanked his head back. “He tried to _clean?_ Clean what, exactly?”

Connor smiled innocently for a boy whose hips moved like _that_. “The apartment. He even tried to do laundry.”

“An’ why on this green and twisted earth would he do something like that?” Habit had Spike’s hands settling over Connor’s hips, fingers sliding under his shirt to stroke over warm, fragile skin.

Peppering kisses over Spike’s mouth and jaw, Connor took a few long minutes to answer. By then, Spike wasn’t caring a whole lot: Connor was eager and randy, rutting against him the way Spike had wanted for his homecoming—like he couldn’t wait, like he’d missed Spike as much as Spike had missed him, determinedly not dreaming about what was waiting at home for him for fear of getting lost in it—their cocks muffled by two layers of denim, distracting but also nice, since that just lent a harsher type of friction for Spike to grind against.

“I think he was worried I’d be lonely.”

Spike went still. Really still, the way only those that didn’t need to breathe could mimic, as still and lifeless as a doll. A doll with a hard, throbbing dick, but that was neither here nor there. “So he came over to try and woo you with all his domestic prowess?”

Connor slumped, sighing heavily. “Do you have to do this?”

“You’re the one that brought him up.”

“I didn’t mean like _that_. He doesn’t—I don’t—”

Yeah, _now_ Angel didn’t, and _now_ Connor wouldn’t, but it wasn’t all that long ago that Spike suspected it was a very enthusiastic positive, no matter how often Connor denied it. Angel didn’t. Angel never did.

Connor used his nose to lift Spike’s chin, kissing him slowly and thoroughly, almost chaste despite the tongue very definitely inside of Spike’s mouth. How he managed that Spike wasn’t sure, but he wouldn’t mind a repeat so he could figure it out. “Spike, he _bought you cigarettes.”_

Involuntarily, Spike glanced over to the far-side table where, yes, there was a carton of his preferred brand of smokes just waiting to be opened. Absently palming Connor’s ass, Spike looked at those cigarettes for a long time. Things had been better between him and Angel the last few months. Not ‘good’. He didn’t think they’d ever reach ‘good’. But Connor wasn’t interested in playing them off each other, the way Dru had, and instead was interested in them at least reaching a _quiet_ state of fued. It mean certain long-held grudges were gradually being pushed to the wayside. 

Connor could pout more sweetly than a doe-eyed puppy and Spike knew Angel was even less immune to that than he was.

“I was only gone a week,” Spike said, quietly.

Connor grinned but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was still a fractured boy, for all he would never see it himself, and Spike was one of the few things he’d ever had that fit into both of his worlds without issue. Granted, the daylight parents hadn’t met _Spike_ so much as a cleaned up, on-his-best-behavior version of him, but it was still his face and his voice and his body they pictured by their son, and they trusted him with Connor's heart and his back, even if it was in different ways than Angel did.

Not all that different, though, maybe. Parents being what they were.

“It was a long week.”

“Was he here often?”

Connor shook his head, hair flying. “Just today. This morning, actually. He was here when I woke up.”

Hearing that did something funny to Spike’s chest. There was a twang or a pull, something he couldn’t really identify, but he didn’t fight it as it propelled him upward, taking Connor’s mouth in a fierce kiss. Didn’t fight the way it prompted him to wrap his arms around Connor’s back, squeezing as tightly as he dared, listening to the fragile human heart as it beat away inside its cradle of blood and bone.

“I want to fuck you,” Connor murmured in his ear.

It didn’t really go with the twang that still hadn’t let up in his damned chest, but Spike was flexible. “Here?”

“Yeah. Right here.”

Grinning, Spike scored a line along Connor’s lower lip with his teeth. “Good thing I came prepared then, innit?”

Connor already had his fingers burrowed into Spike’s pockets, almost frantic as he dug around for the tube that always lived there. That was unexpected, given what Spike himself was feeling—although maybe not. As accepting as Connor had learned to be, when he finally did latch hold on something it was death-grip tight, and this was the longest Spike had been forced away from him since they’d started sleeping together.

Closing his hand around Connor’s, Spike said, “Here, now, stop that. Go sit on the sofa—ah! Don’t argue, just go sit.”

Connor obeyed, glowering with frustrated hate that quickly turned to pleasure as Spike stripped himself hurriedly—he’d already picked his boot-laces undone in the trunk-ride over; no one said he couldn’t anticipate—curling back onto the sofa with his knees hiked up around his ears.

“You better be grateful for this,” he said, pressing two slick fingers inside himself. “You know how I feel about being pretty, and twisted up like a beetle isn’t very attractive at all.”

Connor was up on his knees, jeans tenting as much as denim was ever able, eyes glued to the steady in and out of Spike’s fingers. “Stop fishing for compliments.”

“Oh, that’s nice and polite. Aren’t you supposed to woo whoever it is you’re trying to get a leg over?”

Maybe a few seconds from actually licking his lips, Connor suddenly darted forward to lick _Spike’s_ , biting lightly as he pulled away. “You’re ready, be ready.”

When Connor spoke like that, husky rain-clouds of want, Spike would be whatever Connor wanted him. It left Spike feeling young, always did, which was odd since most of the time being with Connor made him feel _old_ , as old as the teacher he remembered from his human childhood, the one who looked at all the pretty boys he taught through a fringe of grey hair.

“Spike, please.”

“Let me just—”

“No. Like this.” Connor didn’t bother getting his kit off, just undid his trousers and shoved them down enough that his cock sprung free, dark red and already gleaming at the tip. Connor didn’t usually leak much before actual fucking—not unless he was being rimmed or he was sucking Spike off—which meant he was pretty desperate.

Sliding back so he was laying down, Spike reached as Connor lifted up, cradling the boy’s hips and torso as Connor pushed and shoved, leaving wet streaks across Spike’s arse, before finally finding the right angle and sliding all the way in.

Connor gasped as he reached bottom, shivering. “Tell me, is this—”

Spike bit his lower lip until it bled. “Not a fainting flower,” he growled, tonguing the cut for more blood. “Fuck me already!”

There was no reason Spike could find for the unusual moment of hesitation, but once Connor relaxed he began the slow, steady thrusts that most humans could hardly ever maintain, the ones that were so deep the sofa squeaked across a few millimeters each time, Spike’s back rubbing raw and abraded as Connor worked him over.

This, too, was something older than Connor could ever be, something so primal that Spike could never think under the onslaught of it. He could only be there, fucked until he was bloody _mewling_ into Connor’s mouth, sucking on Connor’s tongue because kissing required more skill that he had concentration for.

Connor used every ounce of his supernatural heritage to drag it out, long past Spike’s mind could handle, until Spike could only rock backwards, the only encouragement he knew how to give. He couldn’t even speak which, later, he knew was a good thing: he’d beg Connor to come already, and since that wasn’t the goal—and Spike only begged when it got him something—he was happier with the wordless noises he couldn’t help but make.

Eventually, though, when Connor’s sweat ran wet and salty over Spike’s skin, Connor freed a hand from the sofa, rubbing a palm turned beaded from the indentations of the fabric against Spike’s cock. It was the final bit of stimulation needed and Spike arched, biting his teeth down tight enough that his jaw ached, holding in the howl as he came hard enough that his vision went black and spotty, mind so free-floating that he was barely aware when Connor came as well, collapsing heavily on a chest that needed no air no matter how frantically it heaved.

When both of them were breathing normally, Spike thumbed the soft skin below Connor’s ear, flicking the lobe gently. “It was only a week,” he said quietly. Volume control had always implied intensity to Spike, and the softer he was, the more seriously he meant it.

Connor was always soft, always intense, but he shifted with a sleepy murmur, still caught inside of Spike, and pressed a kiss to the base of Spike’s throat. “Next time, don’t be so long.”

“Think Angel will go for that?”

There was no way Spike could see it, but he knew—knew—Connor smile was sad and a little wistful. Spike hated that bloody smile because he was never certain what it meant. Who it was for. “I think he’ll be okay with it,” Connor said.

“Yeah?”

“Can we sleep like this?”

If there weren’t any mysteries, Spike wasn’t sure why he’d stay. Enigmas were always the biggest attraction of all: he and Angel had shared that long before they’d ever met. “Yeah, love. Go to sleep.”


End file.
